


about a boy

by arexnna



Series: lost stars [28]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Neighbors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arexnna/pseuds/arexnna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>yeap, yet another neighbours au from yours truly. inspired by nbc’s about a boy, and when i say inspired, i just mean that i’m picturing the san fran houses and yeap, that’s about it. should be a two to three part series (and i promise i will actually finish this)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

_beta’d by the amazing[@piratesails](https://tmblr.co/mqehmT-w50L-DfMq_YshOSQ) _

-/-

They move in on a Saturday.

Not just on any old Saturday – but a Saturday _morning_.

_No_ one moves on a Saturday morning.

Besides this family, apparently.

From the racket they’re making, he’d think it was a _Cheaper by the Dozen_ -type family, but from what he’s actually seen, there’s only two of them. _One and a half_ if the young lad isn’t considered a whole – _though_ , from how chatter-y the kid is, he definitely _should_ be considered a whole.

He realizes he should offer his help – you know, proper _neighborly etiquette_ and all, but it’s nice indoors, and he’s comfortable where he is, and—

He can almost _hear_ Liam’s chiding, saying _‘Mother, taught you better Killian’_ and that convinces him enough.

So, as unwilling as he is, he puts on his sweats and grabs the closest shirt he has to toss on, trudging down and out of his house and into the windy morning air that he should _not_ be awake enough to be feeling.

_“Can we have pancakes for dinner?”_

_“You know the rules, kid.”_

_“But, Emma,”_ he hears the boy whine before he makes his presence known with a cough.

Both heads turn, a mess of blonde revealing a not older than him, green-eyed woman, hair tied in an untidy bun atop her head, and the boy with a mop of shaggy, black hair that covers just over his forehead. The lad can’t be older than ten, not with the top of his head only just reaching over his mother’s hips – of which he’s _not_ focused on, _not_ when her face- that- _that’s_ something else entirely.

Both eyes stare at him, and it’s only when the blonde furrows her brow expectantly at him does he realize it’s his cue to introduce himself here.

“I’m from next door,” he vaguely nods towards the house he’d just come from, “Killian,” he introduces, the hand he sticks out for a handshake is drawn into a painfully awkward running of his fingers through his hair once he notices _their_ hands being more than full with the boxes they’re carrying.

The woman looks less than amused, but the boy just shines a grin right at him. “ _I’m_ Henry – and she’s Emma. We just moved in!”

_Emma_ shakes her head, amused, “He probably knows that, buddy. Anyway,” her attentions turn to him when she says, “It’s nice to meet you, Kill—“ she drifts off, her mouth contorting into a cringe for him to continue-

“ _Killian_ ,” he reminds, crooked smile on his lips.

“Right – but we’ve got a lot to unpack, so, if you don’t mind,” she lets her sentence hang, a dismissal if he’s ever seen one, but _right_ -

“Yeah! That’s actually why I came down to say hi – I thought I could help.”

As highly as he prides himself for being a smooth guy, he’s awfully awkward, managing to be more odd in the past five minutes than he ever was in his whole lanky, teen years.

She looks questioningly at him, but it’s Henry who jumps at his offer, with a chirping tone, he suggests, “There’s a box of my books in the truck that not me or Emma can carry – you can take that!”

Emma herself looks as though she’s about to protest, though hesitating when she probably realizes it’ll just be easier to allow him help.

_“’Please’_ ,” she adds for her boy, making the kid look sheepishly up at him, a murmured _‘sorry’_ on his lips, but Killian waves it off, heading towards where just under a dozen boxes are stacked in the back of the vehicle anyway.

He catches up with them once he’s got the heap of books safely in his arms, commenting on how he must read quite a fair amount.

“I like it – it’s like you’re taken somewhere else when reading.”

It’s a surprisingly mature answer for such a young lad, and Killian’s beginning to regret leaving the comforts of his bed for this less and less as he listens to the kid ramble on more about the wonders a book comes with. A kid after his own heart.

“And your mum – she like reading, as well?” he finally asks when they make their second trip out while said _mum_ remains inside, beginning on the unpacking phase.

“She _pretends_ that she doesn’t – but she’s got a whole stack of her _own_ books.”

He vaguely weighs the last few boxes in his arms, passing the lightest over to Henry, while he manages the heavier one.

“Why d’you think she does that?”

The boy shrugs. “I guess she wants to her special place without everyone knowing – she’s like that – _really_ personal.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, the conversation coming to a natural end just as they make it within earshot of the lady herself.

She hasn’t said much to him, but he’s not too bothered by it. If they’re going to be neighbors, they’re going to have to bump into each other some time, and frankly, he’s quite enjoying his chat with her kid.

It takes ten more minutes and a couple more trips back and forth till the moving truck’s finally empty.

They’re unpacking more things now, and while the carrying of boxes isn’t too personal, this part _is_.

“Should I-?” his question is left hanging when he finds a box of pictures. The ones scattered on the top layer are mostly of smiling faces, hers amongst them, surrounded by what he assumes are either friends of family – or a mixture of both, the images framed in a classic, thick black. His eyes catch one of her, Henry and a lady with short black hair, each woman on either side of the lad, and while their smiles seem genuine enough, he notices a hint of tenseness in their eyes – the two women that is, Henry simply smiling as bright as the introducing smile he’d shone at Killian from earlier.

“Oh, right – I’ll handle that,” she moves over towards him, glancing in the box before she, all too quickly, snatches it away. He raises his hands in surrender, apologizing for what he understands to be an invasion of her privacy. “Sorry,” she murmurs just under her breath.

“No, I shouldn’t have pried,” he grimaces, taking a step back as he stretches his back, his body all sore both from last night’s visit to the gym and this morning’s box-moving. He looks around the space – what would be the living room, he presumes, with a marking for where the couch and coffee table would be – the place slowly filling up with the shelves put up and the carpets laid down. They’re all new furniture he realizes, they don’t seem like they were from their previous place, not stained, not touched nor scratched, all with the newly-bought smell to it. He doesn’t comment. “Where’s the lad?” he asks instead, noticing the kid to be nowhere in sight.

“Probably asleep in my room,” she shrugs. “Moving knocks a kid out faster than Nyquil does to an adult.”

That earns a laugh, that fades once he realizes that for the first time they’re alone. He says _first time_ as though he’s known her longer than a couple of hours, but it’s an oddly… _odd_ feeling.

And given his sudden increase in levels of awkwardness today, this is where he cops out.

“All the shelves are up, and boxes in their designated areas,” he comments on a long breath of air. “Guess I should be getting out of your hair?”

“Oh right, yeah.”

He lets himself linger for three more seconds, but when she doesn’t continue or pick up after she left off, he simply excuses himself. And it wasn’t that he was expecting a _thank you_ , he just kind of wanted her to ask him to stick around a little longer. Then again, he can’t really blame her – they’ve known each other barely a handful of hours.

-/-

He truly doesn’t expect a thank you, but that’s what he gets anyway. That and a box of chocolate fudge pop tarts, served on the foot of his door on a paper plate and sticky note reading in a controlled neat writing: _‘Thanks for helping us, Killian. You’re a nice neighbor. – Henry’_ , and added in a more natural cursive: _‘ & Emma’._

Whatever was left of the regret that he felt from earlier? _Totally gone now._

-/-

He bumps into her a lot, mostly when she’s going out and he’s coming in. She doesn’t _seem_ quite like the type who enjoys pleasantries, so instead, his version of neighbourly etiquette is to act like a complete idiot in front of her.

-/-

“ _Good_ morning, Swan,” he grins, having come back from his jog, his shirt a sticky layer of jersey clinging to his body, while _she_ on the other hand, looks like a bloody angel-mixed-goddess, even in the dark hues she wears. Much like that first day, her hair’s all tied up, and even with over a week since her initial move, and multiple run-ins, he’s never quite seen her hair down in all its blonde glory.

He knows what Liam would say if he could hear his thoughts – that he’s being an obsessive creeper, worse than back in Year 9 when he was positively possessed by Jenny Briant and her ridiculous butterfly hairclips and her clique of followers.

“Morning,” she groans out, clearly not feeling as fresh as he does. Noted: Emma Swan – _not_ a morning person.

“You thinking of jogging to the park?” he asks, leaning against the single (sorry excuse of a) tree that draws the line between their two properties, while she pulls her leg into a stretch.

“I was thinking of jogging three blocks to that diner that I saw on the way here and awarding myself with some kind of filthy, unhealthy food, that would totally cancel out my ‘work out’.”

She tries to execute it with a straight face, but with a single arched brow from him, she cracks, with the _smallest_ hint of a smile playing at her lips.

_Worth it_.

“Right, I’m heading off,” she finally says.

It’s when she starts off her jog that he yells out: “If Ruby’s working – tell her you’re my neighbor and you’ll get a free coffee, drink, _whatever you want!_ I’m _awfully_ popular around these parts! _”_

She turns her head enough for him to know she’s acknowledged him, though the smile he catches – well that just adds to his day.

-/-

It’s two days later when she emerges from her kitchen and into her backyard that they interact again.

And to clarify: he knows the layout of her house only because Mrs. Evans, who’d lived there before had invited him over for many tea sessions, the two of them often bonding over their _Britishness_ , so much so that the wooden door on the stretch of fence dividing their backyards were always left unlocked.

(And while that may not be the safest thing to do considering, well, _safety_ , she was an old widower who’d yell out for help for the carrying of pots or vases more than she would pester over his wellbeing – _which is saying something_.)

He’s not even the one that makes the first move ( _first move into_ conversation, _to be clear – he’s far too terrified of being shut down to even_ think _of making a move-move_ ), it’s she who’s head pops up from over the fence, appearing and disappearing as she jumps up and down. By the third or fourth jump ( _he’s not too sure about the details, being far too amused from the situation to actually keep track_ ), when she’s able to confirm he’s actually there, does she him out.

“Yes?” he asks, opening the door, _like any rational person would_.

If he’s expecting embarrassment from her, he doesn’t get it, instead, she goes along.

“What do you know about gardening?”

-/-

“Right so how _do_ you know about gardening?”

She’s given up trying to help salvage whatever Mrs. Evans had left, instead, going lounging with her beer as she watches him do it.

“The lady that lived here taught me a few things – I took care of some of the plants after she left, but I stopped awhile ago.”

She hums at that. There hasn’t been too much conversation, mostly just _‘would pass me that-?’_ or _‘might want to use a glove’_ , and he’s happy with this. At the very least, it’s comfortable.

“Are you always this hospitable with your neighbors?”

“Just to the helpless old ladies and the pretty girls.”

That earns a scoff from her, and when she doesn’t comment any further, he adds:

“Just to be clear: _Mrs. Evans_ is the ‘pretty girls’ I’m talking about, and you- well-“ he shrugs, lets his sentence hang, almost managing not to break until he feels the something hit his back.

“Asshole.”

He’s laughing by the time he turns, his smile only widening when he sees the single slipper behind him – that, paired with her rolling eyes and that hesitant curve of her lips.  

-/-

He hasn’t seen Henry for awhile, the last time he’d seen the kid was when he was going off on his morning jog, and the lad was hopping into Emma’s yellow bug for school.

It takes about two more days to bump into the pair of them again, just a day since he’d sent over his version of a belated house-warming gift, when he’s on the way out and they’re on the way in, again, arms full of groceries.

“Need any help?” he offers again; to which both shake their heads.

“We’re good,” Emma smiles his offer off. “Oh, right I wanted to-“

But Henry interrupts with an urgency to his words, practically bouncing off his feet as he speaks, a rush of something that sounds vaguely like: _“The bag is slipping and I need to use the toilet and I gotta go_ – _Bye Killian!”_ and even before he’s started his goodbye, he’s off.

He’s wouldn’t consider himself particularly great with kids, though with Henry, he’s growing awfully fond of the lad. “Good kid,” he remarks, nodding at where he’d run off to.

_“Yeah,”_ she says longingly, a hint of _something_ there, but again, no questions. He tends to read into people far too deeply, sometimes digging to where there’s really nothing, so learning from past experiences, he doesn’t poke at where he’s unsure anything is. “Anyway – the kid loved your brownies, but I couldn’t have him have too much, so I had to finish it all off for him.” There’s a tease of a smirk playing at the edges of her lips as her shoulder shrug, and remember when he’d said her face was… _something else?_ Yeah, he _still_ can’t put it into words. “Tell me you didn’t make that – or that you made it from the box or something?”

“By these hands and these hands only,” he grins, holding up his palms up, fingers wiggling at her.

“Got to teach me one day,” she says, a soft smile replaces the teasing one from earlier. “What’re you doing tonight, by the way?”

Her question comes to him a shock. She isn’t asking him out, is she? _No_ , she doesn’t seem too interested in him, and while she does seem like the type of person who’d get what they wanted whenever they wanted it, this… there’s something up.

He’s a realist – he doesn’t like false hope.

“Not much, how can I help?”

She seems surprised at his response, thrown back for only the shortest of moments till she jumps right back into it. “I’ve got work to get to at around eight, and I’ll be out for a couple of hours – do you think you could—“

“Watch over Henry?” he finishes for her. She barely gets a nod in when he’s already saying, “’Course, Swan. I’ve got nothing special planned anyway.” And while he wants to ask why she’s working on a Saturday night, he lets it go. Then again, he didn’t quite question why she was home gardening in the middle of a weekday, so he’s not really going to start asking now.  

“Sure?”

He hums agreeingly, a soft smile when he adds, “Send the boy over whenever.” He concludes that it’s the end of the conversation, continuing on his way to his car, but it’s when he’s hopping into the driver’s seat when she calls out:

“No ridiculous innuendo tied with that? Not expecting anything in return?” She _almost_ looks disappointed, but from what he’s learnt of her over her stay, he shouldn’t judge her from what she fronts.

The laugh he lets out is paired with a shaking head as he says, “No, nothing like that. It’ll be my pleasure,” he adds, a flashing smile thrown her way. “And Swan? No need to flirt for me to watch over the lad,” he sends her his biggest smirk and in an attempt to leave her somewhat bewildered or confused or intrigued (or any sort of interested in him), he starts the car and drives off.

-/-

(About a second later when he’s really processed what he’s done, he sees how big of a douche he must’ve come off as.

So, along with his _smooth_ exit, his chances at anything with her go _‘poof!’._ )

-/-

Henry is – _taken_ , would seem like a good word to describe it – with Killian’s (what he hates to admit is his) _bachelor pad_.

“You have a foosball table _and_ a pool table?”

He glances at where the lad’s _exploring_ , circling the pool table, his curious eye staring the thing down, idly strumming at his guitar as he hums out a reply.

“My mom would say that’s a waste of-“ Henry starts, catching himself and amending to, “she’d just say it’s a waste, actually. She hates fun.”

That piques his interest, “Really? I mean I know she doesn’t like me too much, but doesn’t _sound_ like your mom, then again, who am I to—“

“ _Oh_ , not that mom – my _other_ mom.”

Well, _that_ catches him. “Your- _wha—?_ Like your dad’s wife, or—? _”_

“No, not like that – like my—“ then the kid just brushes it off, “ _Long_ story – most of it’s not mine to tell, ask my Emma-mom.”

He wants to push, he’s nosy like that – but privacy, he gets that, and if it’s Emma’s story to tell, he won’t find out unless he’s hearing it from her mouth itself.

And _speaking of-_ she- she didn’t look like she was dressed for a work thing when she’d come and dropped Henry off, but more like a- a _personal_ event, with the _well-fitted_ dress she wore with its _non-conservative_ (to say the least) neck line and her _high, high_ heels. And honestly, what she wears doesn’t bother him at all, what gets him is that there’s probably a very lucky person getting to fully appreciate what she’s wearing that bites at him.

But _no_ , he’s not jealous. He’s not the jealous type, anyway.

“Okay, this is not cool – you have an Xbox _and_ a PS4? Is this my heaven?”

That cracks a grin into him, nodding at the screen as he says, “Go ahead, take your pick.”

And that’s all the invitation Henry needs before he darts to switch the console on ( _the PlayStation – good choice_ ), running just as quickly to land with a muted thud on the couch.

“You can come over any time you want to play any of these, you know? As long as your mother allows it, that is,” Killian adds, and then amending, “ _Mothers.”_

Henry doesn’t seem disturbed by it, too focused on choosing a game it seems. “Hey, that typewriter there-“ he vaguely nods towards the corner where his study table sits, “- does it work?”

He pauses. “The typewriter?”

Henry nods.

“Aye, lad – it works.”

“And who’s _‘A-R-B’_?”

“What? How d’you-“

“I saw the initials – I just thought,” seeming to sense something, Henry pauses the game, turning towards Killian when he asks, “Did they mean a lot to you?”

For such a young boy, he’s awfully perceptive.

“It was my mother’s – she passed it to me when I was just about your age just after I told her that I wanted to be a writer.” His gaze trails to where the typewriter sits, the old thing that he doesn’t touch anymore, more a display than anything. It’s been awhile since he’s sat himself down at his little corner, and he vaguely wonders how dusty the thing is, its usual black probably covered with a thin coat of dust. “ _Amelia_ _Rose_ _Bennett_ ,” he mentions, adding, “that was her name before she became _Mrs. Jones._ ”

“Cool.” And just like that, the kid’s focus is back on the screen.

He strums idly, plucking at the strings, playing a simple melody, much of the space filled with the music from his guitar or the splatter of bullets from the game. It takes a moment or two until Henry speaks up again.

“So, _did_ you ever become a writer?”

“I—“ he realizes he could tell the lad, that it would be of no consequence that he knew, but alas- “I’ve written a few things, nothing too professional – newspaper articles and what not.”

_Not_ a lie, though, not quite the truth.

“So, what _do_ you do?”

“I work for- uh—“

_Driver roll up the partition please. I don’t want you seeing Yoncé on her—_

And saved by the bell. (The bell that _Ruby_ had chosen, since his lost bet to her.)

Except it isn’t the bell (nor is it _Belle_ ), but instead, it’s Will who’s yelling some incoherencies through the phone, Killian only needing to catch _‘drunk’, ‘officer’_ and _‘trouble, mate’_ to get the gist of it.

Henry stares expectantly, his young face furrowed by his brows, a questioning look across his features.

“What say you we go out for a little while, huh, lad?”

-/-

“You’re a good man, Killian Jones,” Will shouts out from where he leans, slumped against the metal bars.

Killian rolls his eyes as reply, a noncommittal wave in his direction as he fills out the information.

“I’ll pay you back, mate – I promise.”

“We both know how much of truth lies in your word, Scarlet.”

“And that’s why you’re my favourite over Arthur.”

“I’m _everyone’s_ favourite over Arthur – the guy’s a bloke.”

It takes a few more minutes until they’re unlocking the cell, sliding the heavy metal across and allowing Will out.

“So long, my fellow delinquents,” Will waves obnoxiously as he _swaggers_ out, when he reaches where Killian is, he pulls him into a hug, both men patting the other’s back when a squeaky _‘Hi!’_ is heard.

And _right – Henry._

“Uh –“ Will starts once they’ve taken a step back, staring down at the boy, what can be safely referred to as confusion is plainly evident on his face, “There something you need to tell me?”

“I’m Henry,” he sticks his hand out for Will to shake, and when he does, he’s looking bewildered between the two of them.

“ _Killian_.”

“Would you calm down?” he assures, ruffling Henry’s hair when he says, “He’s my neighbour’s lad – she’s off working so—“

“The fit one--?”

“ _Mate_ ,” Killian presses, his eyes gesturing at Henry repeatedly for Will to _finally_ get the message.

But when realization hits, Henry’s already asking, “Fit? No, my mom doesn’t really work out – she eats like a pig actually, but she does run someti—“

“ _Aye_ , that’s exactly what I meant,” both men jump in quickly, nodding fervently, both absolutely _shit_ at lying apparently.

He rushes Will to take his things that were confiscated from him in the first place, wanting to get out before any more revealing things slip out, and just as he uses the excuse that he needs to get Henry back before Emma gets back, guess who just _walks_ right into the station.

_That’s right._

Apparently, fate has a way of fucking with him.

“Killian? _Henry?”_ the second name comes out more shocked than the first, Emma’s face a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

Killian can admit that whatever she’s showing on her face is exactly what he’s feeling as well.

He’s about as confused as she looks gorgeous, loose tendrils of blonde falling from her messy ponytail, a brown leather jacket slung over one shoulder – it all just adds to her and _this_ is what it must feel to be fuckstruck.

“Mom!” Henry calls, his chirpy voice pulling Killian from the reverie he’d willingly fallen into, the boy running into her, his arms flung around her waist, taking her just under a second to react and to hold on to him.

He watches as she bends down and whispers something in his ear, Henry nodding as he scurries off towards where an officer stands, smiling and as she beckons for him to sit with her.

“Bennett,” Emma calls and he almost very much responds to that, until he notices the other officer approaching them, “The guy’s in the backseat of my car – a little bit knocked out and a lot beaten up,” she mentions, tossing him her keys as he passes, a _‘Roger that’_ and a playful salute given off.

“And _you?”_

He’s suddenly _very_ intimidated.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“Me? What are _you_ doing here – you said you were working!” Killian retorts, and for how he prides himself to be quite sharp, his mind can’t seem to connect the dots here.

“This _is_ work – I’m a bail bondsperson.”

_Dots: connected_.

And that egoistic part of him smiles, knowing that her dress was probably not for a secret date or anything, instead, a likely trap for her perps.

“Now you.”

“I had to help my friend out, he—“

“Wasn’t _my_ fault, Miss,” Will cuts in, him being quiet up till now too good to be actually true. “ _That_ bloke-“ he points very obviously to the man sitting in the cell, with a permanent frown on both his mouth and brows, and the very full tattoo sleeve that’s clear through his oh-so classy sleeveless shirt, “- was the one who punched me first, givin’ me this thing,” he points at the red around his eye, “Can’t blame me for fighting back, can ya?”

Killian grimaces throughout his whole speech, _trying_ to keep from evening out Will’s other eye, only barely managing to keep his fist to his side for the sake of his own hand and the fact that he _is_ in a police station.

“Go to the car, mate.”

_“Right_.”

He watches at Will retreats, how just before the door he gestures towards Emma, managing two thumbs up and a proud grin before he _finally, finally_ vanishes from sight. All the while, Emma herself has her arms folded and an expected glare in her eyes.

“We were _just_ about to get back. I swear I don’t make it habit to bring the young boys I hang around to the police station- _not,_ not that I hang around a lot of young boys – well, besides my nephews and my mate’s kid—“

She holds her hand up to stop him, effectively shutting his rambling down. “It’s fine,” she says. (But from his experience with other women, it’s never really _fine_ , and by the hard stare she keeps on, this _isn’t_ an exception.)

But he decides to drop it. “Do you need me to bring Henry back?” he offers instead, grimace on his lips.

But she shakes her head, “No, really – don’t worry. I’m almost done here anyway.”

“Alright,” he leaves it at that, slowly heading towards the door, vaguely waving in Henry’s direction – _‘Bye Killian! Show me how to use your typewriter next time!’_ Henry calls out, adding a _‘Pleeaase’_ , when Emma coughs out – trying his hardest not to do the clichéd _turn back as you walk away_ move, simply because _one:_ they’re not in some cheesy romcom, and _two:_ those moments only occur during _‘cute, romantic scenes’_ and _that_ was not _cute_ nor was it _romantic_ , though at the very least, it _almost_ caused a scene.

Emma Swan is an enigma, wrapped in layers and layers of unknowns that only keeps Killian more and more curious, that and—

_“Hey mom – what does it mean when someone is ‘fit’?”_

_And that_ just speeds up his last few steps out of the building, almost tripping on himself as he hurries out of there.

-/-

( _Oh right – that_ _and_ she looks simply magnificent in that dress of hers.)

-/-


	2. part two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this was much much delayed. if you’ve read my old works, you’d know that i absolutely love writing Ruby, and writing bi Ruby and Emma characters - this story is no exception. i swear i actually will finish this - though how long it’ll take is another matter.

He’s stuck.

This pit of un-inspiration has been killing him. He’s pretty sure that by now his 20/20 vision is no more having been staring at the same blank screen for hours on end. Apparently every part of his mind is betraying him, disallowing him from finding any words he could possibly string into a decent sentence.

He’d sought refuge in Granny’s, taken out his laptop, turned on his _Writing-_ playlist, ready to write, hoping that the usual inspiration he gets with the smell of diner-grade coffee, with the sound of Granny herself nagging Ruby’s ear off, with the sight of retired men and women squinting impossibly hard at their newspapers, would trigger something in him, but alas, two hours in, and he’s barely gotten past a single line.

Ruby is less than helpful, distracting him with all the food she makes him order, only to eat most of it herself, all the while going off about her recent sexcapades – which, _to be fair_ , are pretty impressive. Though, while Ruby isn’t helping to add words onto his screen, it’s barely her fault. He’s been in this writer’s block for over two months now, inspiration having left his head the moment he’d finished chapter six. Which, by his luck, is just _great_ , seeing as Ingrid wants to read the first _eight_ chapters by the end of next week.  

“Maybe you need to get laid.”

“Maybe you need to get back to work.”

 _“Yeah,_ because the diner’s _so_ busy, right?”

Killian rolls his eyes, to which Ruby mirrors. “You’re exasperating.”

“And you’ve got a stick stuck so far up your—“

But Ruby’s insult is interrupted when Killian feels a slap meet the back of his head, and by the silent _ow_ Ruby makes, he assumes she received one too.

“The two of you are _children!_ ” Granny scolds, smacking their heads again for good measure before hurrying off to the kitchen.

The two glare at the other for a moment, a staredown on the brink of happening when they both break, lips twitching into a smile as Ruby nudges at his shoulder.

“Okay, writer-man – go create your next NYT bestseller.”

But Ruby’s words of encouragement only work to make him feel worse.

“Okay, okay stop,” Ruby pulls him back from banging his head against the counter.

“What does that even _mean_ any more though? Isn’t _every_ book a _‘New York Times Bestseller’_ these days?”

“Okay, okay – lets see what you have here,” she starts, pulling the laptop towards her to stare at the screen.

_‘The night sky was dark.’_

“ _Ah._ It’s- uh- _progress?_ ” Ruby offers, trying a smile in support.

“Who am I kidding? That’s close to one of the worse descriptive sentences made by man.”

“Pretty much,” she shrugs. He glares, deadpanned, at her, when she realizes how unhelpful that probably was, when she restarts with a, “C’mon lets take a stab at this, huh?” before shoving his laptop back at him, urging for him to do something.

“Right, right,” he mutters, deleting his sorrowful attempt, typing furious nothings onto his screen, writing and deleting, writing and deleting, writing and—

_“Oh, hey guys.”_

_Emma._

He slams his laptop close, Ruby looking suspiciously at him as Emma approaches, settling on the other side of him.

“ _Heyyyy_ ,” Killian greets awkwardly enough, dragging the single syllable out far too long to be natural. He smiles too brightly for _normal_ , and by the arched brow Emma has raised at him, she definitely notices.

She nods a greeting at him anyway, turning to Ruby who without asked, says, “Hot chocolate?”

“Please,” Emma smiles, before she settles herself on the other side of Killian, Ruby moving to the other side of the counter ( _to finally do her job for the first time in the last hour and a half)_.

“About last week- I’m sorry I brought—“

But she interrupts his apology with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. You were helping a friend, and the alternative would be to leave Henry alone in your place – so, you did the right thing.”

Her acceptance means more to him than he was prepared for, a rush of relief and a certain kind of pride washes through him at her words.

“He wants to hang with you again, by the way,” she adds in passing. “The kid loves your house.”

“Aye, that’s fine by me, lass – he’s welcomed anytime, I’m barely doing much anywa—“

“When you _should be_ working!” Ruby chimes in, grinning when Killian shoots her a glare.

“Anytime,” he repeats anyway, pressing on a smile at Emma.

She nods at that, the barest hint of something resembling a smile. “How about the next time he comes back from his other mom’s place?”

 _Other mom_ – there it is again. He’s getting awfully curious what the _‘long story’,_ as Henry had coined it as, was.

“Sounds good to me,” he replies through his confusion.

“Maybe I could join one of the nights and see what the big fuss is all about, huh?”

She says it lightly, almost like a joke, coming so naturally that he almost misses what she _could_ be implying. But with all the unknown information and confusion, he’s just left in a muddle of not knowing how to react, choosing instead, to elicit what would go down as the world’s most awkward laugh.

But Ruby’s timing is impeccable, distracting Emma from the catastrophe bound to happen when she pushes a to-go cup of hot chocolate at her.

“With a sprinkle of cinnamon,” Ruby adds as Emma takes it from her, apparently cinnamon isn’t the only thing she _sprinkles on_ , what with the explicitly flirtatious wink she sends Emma’s way.

“A woman after my own heart,” Emma smiles in response, fishing out some loose change from her back pocket.

She smiles as she takes a careful sip of the drink, a look of gratitude she throws at Ruby. “Better head off then,” she says, hopping off the stool, “Thanks again, Ruby.”

“Anytime.”

“I’ll see you around?” she adds, though this time, (while it takes him a moment to realise), it’s directed at him, and he swears his heart jumps.

“Count on it.”

And then she’s off.

 _Besotted_ would still be an understatement when it comes to Emma Swan, which leads him to:

“Give it to me straight, Lucas – Emma, she’s-?”

“Anything _but_ straight,” Ruby finishes for him, and he sighs.

Well that’s a bummer.

“ _But_ – just because she plays for _my-“_ Ruby gestures up and down her body, “-team, doesn’t mean she can’t like your players.”

If his life were a children’s cartoon, his ears would perk here.

“She’s bi?”

“Most definitely – trust me and my gaydar, Jones. In that less than two minute exchange, there were _moments_.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause she flirts with me when she wants something – probably that whole bails bondsperson thing innate in her—“

“You’re joking.”

“What?”

“She’s a bails bondsperson? That means she has handcuffs—goddamn Killian, if you don’t go for her, I just might – I’m already halfway in love.”

If there’s one thing he can count on Ruby for, it’s keeping him laughing. “You’re ridiculous,” he manages through a smile.

“So are you.”

“At least I’m not—“

“ _Not_ again!” a yell reverberates through the diner, and _shit_ , Granny has a ridiculously amazing hearing.

And just like second nature, the both of them raise their hands in surrender.

“I’ll do my work, if you’ll do yours,” Ruby says, and that’s as sweet a deal as he’ll ever make with her, so he takes it.

He deletes the entire page, a wave of new ideas suddenly hitting him.

-/-

Henry comes over the next week, full of stories and questions and the boy barely takes a breath as he rambles his way through his week.

“Hey, do you think you could help me with something?” Henry asks in between chewing on chips after finally settling down.

“Mm?”

“I have this writing competition in school and I want to enter and you’re a writer, so I thought you could help me see if—“

“Wait, what did you say?” Killian stops him, his hand held up.

“There’s a competition in school?” he repeats, this time slower.

“Not that – after.”

“That you’re a writer?”

“How-“

“Doesn’t take a genius,” Henry says with an awful nonchalance. “Your newspaper articles framed up are all reviews on the same book series, and you _did_ tell me your mom’s name was Bennett. _That_ and there is such thing as Google, you know?”

“You googled me?”

“I google all my neighbors. Did you know Mrs. Bailey from across the street was once a super cool firefighter?”

“I did but-“

“Your secret’s _safe,_ ” Henry rolls his eyes. “Now will you help me?”

The boy drives a hard bargain, and Killian commends him for the confidence that radiates around the kid.

“I- yeah, lets see what you’ve got.”

He whips out his notepad before Killian has the time to finish his sentence.

-/-

Henry’s a brilliant writer.

Not only ‘ _for a ten-year-old’_ , but for a _writer_. The boy’s got an eye for a story, and with some help here and there, he really could be something.

“You think I can win?”

“I think it’d be impossible if you didn’t.”

He grins proudly at that, a smile that takes over five minutes to properly fade.

“Wait here,” Killian says, before he shoots up and races up his stairs, returning in less than a minute.

“Every aspiring writer needs a proper journal.” He offers the leather bound notebook he’s had stocked away for far too long.

“Is this yours?”

“Aye.”

Henry flips through it, the smile still evident on his face, then he looks up. “Your father gave this to you,” he says as a statement rather than as a question.

“Yeah.”

“And you never used it?”

“We didn’t have a great relationship – but it is a good quality journal, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

The boy’s smile is brighter than he’s ever seen it before, and he’s glad to have played a part in it. “So, what do I write in it?”

“ _Anything_. It can be a diary to write what you’re feeling, a place to write whatever stories you have waiting to burst from here,” he says, tapping at Henry’s temple as he says the last word. “It can be anything and everything.”

“Okay,” he nods, “Can you write something in it? Like some inspirational message for me?”

Killian smiles. He moves to grab his Mont Blanc from his desk, flipping to where his father’s messy writing wrote _‘You have a gift, use it. – Your father.’_ moving below the message to write his own.

He hands it back to Henry, and when the boy looks up, joy just emanates. “’ _Anything and everything’,”_ Henry reads aloud. “Thanks, Killian.”

He ruffles at the boy’s hair, “Anytime, lad.”

“You know,” Henry starts, a hint of something mischievous underlying his words, “A journal this nice only deserves a pen just as nice,” he adds, eyes very obviously eyeing the one in Killian’s hand.

He prides himself for being generous, but this is one of his favorite pens, with its ink that runs smoother than a good drink, how seamless it is on paper.

But the lad’s a good bargainer, and when the night ends, Henry leaves his house with a new-old journal, and a Mont Blanc pen to go with it.  

-/-

He’s just got off the phone with his agent, pacing around his kitchen, when he hears a racket going on in the backyard.

He’s almost ready to grab his bat when he hears a very frustrated, familiar grunt.

“Swan?”

It takes four seconds for her to answer, piping out a, “ _Yeah?”_

He makes his way over, pushing the door open, only to find a struggling Emma Swan with a pot that’s almost her size.

“Can I offer a hand, love?”

She considers him for a moment, as if she was gauging whether she could manage or not, when she finally caves with an exasperated, _“Please.”_

-/-

“Henry over at his _other_ mum’s place this weekend?” he asks, testing the term on his tongue, when they’ve begun cleaning up.

“Yeah. For the week actually.”

“ _Ooh_ , tough. I know what it’s like bouncing between parent to parent’s houses – wasn’t great as a kid, wasn’t great for my mum either.”

“Child of divorce, huh?” she probes, eyebrow raised at him in question.

“Aye. It was my mum that wanted us, really – my father, he didn’t care too much. He kind of only _fought_ for us – in the literal sense – just to spite her, really. Plus, he was the richer one – so they saw him as a fitter parent to have primary custody.”

He says all this with an ease. It isn’t that he’s talked a lot about it – the only people whom he’s told are Ruby and Robin, both when inebriated – but there’s an odd comfort he finds when talking to Emma. Whether that feeling is mutual or not, he’s yet to find out.

“No offense, but he sounds like a dick.”

“None taken, and you’re right in saying so. Jokes on him though – once my mum left we were his all year round, and he had no one to spite anymore.”

“Oh, where’d she go?”

“Well, cancer got to her and—“

“ _Oh God_ , I’m so sorry – I didn’t- my mind’s scrambled right now, really.”

She reaches for his arm, her fingers resting there and she looks terribly apologetic. He needs to amend that.

“Don’t worry about it, it was ages ago. It’s not a sore subject anymore.” He smiles it off, brushes the matter away. “What’s your story then?”

“Mine?”

“Your ex? Henry’s other mom? What happened there?”

“My ex— _Oh! No, no_. I’m not- I mean I am- just not ever with Regina. I mean, she’s _not_ my _ex_.”

He’s not sure if this clears things up or confuses him more, but she seems to sense that, when as she continues.  

“Long story short, I was really young when I got pregnant with Henry, and I gave him up – didn’t have a place for myself, what more for a baby. So, I gave him up, then an old foster mother tracked me down and took me in and by the time I wanted to get Henry back, Regina had adopted him.”

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t quite that.

“Moved on, then like nine years later, some kid comes knocking on my door, and now I’m here.”

“The father?”

“Was never in the picture. Split when I told him I was pregnant.”

“That’s vile.”

“That’s one of the words I’d use to describe him. I usually go for dickhead, but vile is good too.”

He offers her a smile, then busies himself with the task at hand.

“Thanks for sharing, by the way,” he mentions sometime later, after he’s gone off to grab drinks from his, handing her one for herself.  

She waves him off, taking a sip instead. “You know it usually takes a lot more for me to tell someone that.”

Killian shrugs, attempting to hide the swell of pride he gets from what she’d just said. “Been told I just have one of those faces people _spill_ their secrets to.”

“That – or, I’m just not too bothered with how I got my son back – just that I did.”

“More likely that,” he agrees, mimicking her as she tilts her drink back.

“Though, the face _does_ help.”

He tries not to smile too much.

-/-

Over the next week, he tries to check in on her when he can – see if she’s lonely in a house not meant for one without her son. He doesn’t _stalk_ her per se, he just simply spends more time loitering in areas where he might catch her.

He does finally manage to get through writing a draft of a single chapter, and while Ingrid still wouldn’t be too pleased with his progress, it _is_ progress nonetheless.

He’s halfway through the plot of his next chapter when he hears a knock on his door.

Killian is about ready to accept any possibility as to who’s knocking besides the reality. He’d be more prepared if Liam had come from London, than to actually see Emma Swan standing in front of him with a bag of popcorn and a bottle of wine in her hand.

“Surprise?”

Yeah, _surprise_ would be one way to word it.

-/-

He makes sure to save and store his work away – that and remembering to switch his playlist from ‘ _writing’_ to anything less mellow.

She’s settled herself comfortably on his couch, the way both her and Henry carry themselves in others’ homes makes him really wonder how she wasn’t the one who raised him – their confidence too much alike. But perhaps that is more nature than nurture.

He shuffles around the kitchen to find a corkscrew, having more trouble than usual withstanding his levels of neatness he prides himself for.

“I don’t drink too much wine,” he clarifies after a minute of searching then finding the corkscrew. “I’m more a rum-person.”

“Should’ve told me – I’ve a stash of _Captain Morgan_ s that I’ve been meaning to bust out.”

His mind jumps to what she’d said to Ruby all those days ago:

_A woman after my own heart._

“Not that you’re not always welcomed – but what brings you over?” he changes the topic before he falls for this woman solely based on her drink of choice.

“Saw your lights were on and I was bored out of my mind, _and_ I wanted to check out why Henry’s so obsessed with your place.”

“Verdict?”

“If you were to Google ‘ _bachelor pad’_ your place would come out in the images.”

“Thanks,” he replies, the single word dripping sarcasm.

“C’mon,” she starts, hand sweeping over the space, “You’ve got arcade games, a pool table, an unnecessarily large TV, then like a billions books and newspaper articles framed up. You have a _jukebox_!”

“It was on sale,” he mutters, planting himself on the opposite side of the couch to her, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

But she just grins at his petulance, and whatever mood this is that Emma’s in, he’s really enjoying it.

She hops up, the wine sloshing around in the glass before she sets it down, making her way to the pool table, nodding him at it.

“Someone’s chipper tonight,” he comments as he follows after, placing his glass next to hers.

“ _Bored_ ,” she amends.

Whatever it is, bored or chipper, he’s here for it.

“I’ll warn you,” Emma begins, picking up a cue for herself and hands another to him. “I’m amazing at pool.”

“And I’ll warn you – I’m _not._ ”

-/-

Neither of them were lying.

She wins four games to one, but really, the one game he won was by default when she’d prematurely pocketed the 8 ball.

“Why do you have a pool table if you suck so badly?”

“If I told you that it attracted women – what would you say?”

“I’d say it fits the feel of the place. _And_ that I hope you’ve never had sex on it because a warning would’ve been nice before I touched the table.”

He chuckles at that, eyes darting down as he tidies up the balls, placing the cues back into their stands. “No, none of that,” he reassures. “What next?” he asks.

Emma shrugs, making her way around the space, too much like her son did.

“Henry showed me the journal you gave him, by the way.”

“Oh?” He replies vaguely as he grabs himself a glass of water.

“Yeah. He’s been writing loads in there. He told me it was given to you by your dad?”

“Aye.”

“You sure that was okay?”

“Trust me, it’s in more useful hands with your boy.”

“Okay,” she answers, nodding as she moves back to the couch. “So, what movie are we watching?”

-/-

“How’s the progress?”

“I’ve gotten through four chapters, so—“

“I meant with Emma.”

“Of course.”

“So?” Ruby raises an expectant brow. “She came in the other day and _in passing_ mentioned that she passed out at yours the other day. What’s the story?”

That she did.

Shortly after they started the movie, she’s started dozing off, her feet curled into her, her toes just barely grazing his thigh. He’d turned it off not ten minutes later, finding a blanket to put over her before he’d gone and ( _tried to_ ) sleep himself.

“She fell asleep during a movie.”

“Was this a _Netflix & chill _kind of ‘movie’?”

“ _No._ ”

“Well damn. You had a platonic movie date with a girl?”

“You and I have platonic movie dates all the time.”

“Not before that one drunken night.”

“Are you saying we can only hang out platonically because we’ve slept together before?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you’re—“

“You must really like her, huh?”

“I—“

“She likes you too, I think. How she talks about you with her kid – she likes you enough.”

Ruby leaves it at that, but _‘she likes you enough_ ’ is enough for him to start grinning like an idiot.

-/-

 


End file.
